Aflame
by Lufthexe
Summary: If Sif's desire was a flame, then her love was a wildfire, consuming her and threatening to destroy the walls she had built around her heart, walls every warrior was taught to have.


Sif does not remember the exact point in time when they had first lain together. She does not remember each individual battle she has fought, either, but she does remember the scars. She can remember the spear piercing her rib cage and the teeth tearing through the flesh of her calf just as she remembers the way they had come undone in each other's arms; the way his eyes had darkened with heat and need and also uncertainty. The way she had trembled, on the edge of a great precipice tipping and plunging her—them into something foreign.

It was so much more terrifying than war.

Sif could measure the amount of arrows in a quiver, the strikes it would take from her glaive to fell a troll, and the amount of force to use to crack a skull. She could not measure the amount of time it had taken for lust to turn into something different. But she knew the way her chest had burned, aflame with this new emotion that was not rage or violence or any vestige of war that she was accustomed to. And with this new emotion came fear, a fear she had not felt before. And it had not been his fault. The beautiful, dark prince that had lain beside her, gasping for breath as she did the same. He hadn't intended for her heart to seize at the sight of him, midnight hair wild and pale chest heaving, as he looked to her with something close to adoration in his eyes. She didn't blame him for the way she had to swallow the flames that danced at her breast when his light touch traced the curve of her hip, pressing his cool lips softly to her shoulder.

If Sif's desire was a blaze, then her love was a wildfire, consuming her and threatening to destroy the walls she had built around her heart, walls every warrior was sure to have. For if there was one thing Sif knew, it was that love clouded judgment. It made warriors charge into battle unaided, outmanned, and inevitably outmatched. Sif had no want for this deadly malady that threatened all she had worked for. And yet, the dark prince with eyes of ice has surely enraptured her. They were drawn to each other, fire and frost, opposites in every way save the intensity of their might.

If Loki noticed a change in her, he made no comment, oblivious to the way her fists would clench as he trailed the edges of his fingers down the length of her arm unconsciously, the way passion transformed into something more dangerous, something that Sif hid and tried to smother. But a fire, once lit, needed only a small breath to feed the flames.

In the end, he noticed. Sif was not one to play with subterfuge, and the quiet emotion that lurked in the depths of her eyes begged at something new, something different. He had struggled to get her alone again, for she had been flighty, avoiding him for over a week. It did not sit well with him, and pulled at him in ways that he was not accustomed to. But Sif had become more to him than a simple travel companion.

When he finally did get her alone, and confronted her, Sif marshaled her thoughts, eyes flashing with battle and looked at him like he was something to conquer. And when she spoke, derisively, of the affection that had grown unbidden inside of her, it was as if Loki could finally see her, _see_ her, for what she was and what she was saying. And Sif stood there, trying to be brave as she was in battle and let the fight sing through her veins and confidence flare in her eyes, but it would not because this was not a war. This was not a monster she could slay and behead; this was jumping off the edge of a cliff without knowing what awaited at the bottom. She was about to storm away too, embarrassed and angry at herself for being so weak as to have these emotions when he caught her, his fingers threading through her dark hair and his lips crashing into hers, mouth slanted to let his tongue—wicked, silver tongue—dance upon the inside of her mouth, his body pressed tightly against hers as she sighed into him, letting her body mesh into his as her hands wound around his back, clenched desperately in the fabric of his tunic. The burning in her chest that had smoldered for weeks consumed her, enveloping her with its flames as it traveled through her limbs, setting her body aflame. And when she pulled away to catch her breath, Loki looked at her with fire in his eyes, the ice that she was so accustomed to melted, and Sif was overcome with relief as potent as a deep, gasping breath of air after nearly being drowned. Delight flickered across Sif's eyes, and Loki was almost taken aback by the depth of emotion the warrior goddess displayed. At once he was pressed with the realization of amount of power she had willingly given him. It was terrifying knowledge, and Loki was lost; his thoughts a maelstrom as Sif's hands trailed along his waist and over his hip. Sif watched him, with fire burning in her eyes and a kind of adoration he had never known, and he knew he would always belong to her. He craved her flames just as she longed for his cool lips against her neck, sliding along her veins and shivering with more than just desire. Loki pressed his lips to hers once more, claiming the fire for his own as her fingers burned him, traveling up his chest and reaching his heart, where Loki could feel his blood throbbing in his veins, warm and ready for a new kind of battle. One where there was no win or lose, only sweat and entwined bodies and gasping for breath. One where flames would temper frost's chill, and ice could numb fire's burn.


End file.
